Enough Trouble for a Lifetime
by onoM
Summary: If you wonder how a muggle saved the wizarding world, I'm the right person to ask: My name is Harry Potter, and I am that muggle. How'd I do it? Well it wasn't easy, and I probably made it harder than it had to be...but it sure makes one hell of a story.
1. The Stolen Letter

Chapter One

* * *

The Stolen Letter

* * *

It all began, innocuously enough, when I was made to clean out Dudley's second bedroom.

I had shuffled everything to one side and started binning everything I could, beginning with broken toys and electronics and moving on to old books and papers. Over a decade of rubbish and toss-aways were strewn about carelessly, old course assignments and grade reports. And of course, books. They looked to be the only unmolested items in the room.

Halfway through the third box of old papers, I found something that made my eyes widen in shock: a letter for me. I'd never received post, not even those rude messages the libraries sent out—And yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly that there could be no mistake:

_Mr. H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp on the crumpled, yellowish parchment.

Turning the envelope over, I saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter _H_.

I vaguely remembered holding this strange envelope years ago, only to see it snatched out of my hands before I could open it. Vernon had said it was addressed to me by mistake so he'd burned it.

_So that's what you did with it, old man... How'd you manage to convince yourself this wasn't my letter? It has the cupboard on the address and everything..._

Somebody, at some point, had actually sent me a letter! Cracking the seal with a grateful flourish, I pulled out the letter and read:

_**Hogwarts School**_

_**of Witchcraft and Wizardry**_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_

_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_ We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_ Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall,_

_Deputy Headmistress_

A sense of absurd anticlimax crashed down over my gratefulness, shattering it spectacularly.

_What sort of joke is this? School of Witchcraft? What sort of crap name is Hogwarts, and how could I have gotten an owl to tell Minerva McGonagall that I'd've liked to attend? Owls can't even talk, can they? Maybe a parrot or something...but an owl? How would I even go about catching an owl, and where would I send it?_

I glanced over the list of books and equipment, and my scowl deepened. _Dragon hide gloves...a wand...a size 2 pewter cauldron...where would I even _begin_ looking for such ridiculous books? At least I wasn't allowed a broomstick—that would've been a tricky piece of kit to acquire; I doubted they were talking about the kind Aunt Petunia used to knock me about..._

The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. I was already a student at Stonewall High, and I was very nearly fourteen years old; it had been _years_ since this letter had been taken from me.

I found myself furious.

Who was this Minerva McGonagall? And why hadn't Minerva followed up when she didn't receive my well-trained owl that told her to be expecting my robe-wearing, cauldron-stirring self on September 1?

And more importantly...why on earth was I taking this so seriously? It had to be a prank.

Frowning down at the emerald-green scrawl and shaking my head at my gullibility, I tucked the letter into my math book and crawled back into my cupboard. I tried not to focus on the fact that tomorrow would be Monday, and I'd have to return to school.

I dreamed of flying motorcycles.

* * *

If Stonewall High had been a prison, then I would've been firmly entrenched in the violent offenders' ward—for a traffic violation.

I endured the conspicuous glares and hushed whispers with thinly-veiled irritation. I was almost used to it by now; I'd had to wear Dudley's dyed hand-me-downs until I'd worked up enough ire to learn to sew. I'd cut and stitched together the tattered clothes myself, and though I was far from accomplished, I didn't get stared at quite so thoroughly since making my last adjustments.

It was also getting easier to endure our daily lectures on personal responsibility and planning for the future, surrounded as I was by big, stupid students, ignoring as best I could the extraordinarily sharp pencils being hurled at me. Even with my recent growth spurt, my chest might've been only slightly wider than one of Dudley's legs.

Finally noticing all the snickering and pencil-hurling, Mr. Mason slammed his yardstick down on the table with a sharp _thwack! _and bellowed, "Listen up! This program is the last window of opportunity you'll have, children! This class—and my good graces—are the only things between you and St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!"

The oft-repeated line was good for a laugh from most of the other students, but I didn't think it was the least bit funny—I was only in this stupid program because of my rotten relatives.

Three years ago, when I passed through the double-doors on my first day at Stonewall High, certain circumstances had worked against me from the very start: I had been wearing what looked to be bits of old elephant skin. Coupled with Petunia's favorite haircut—shaving me nearly bald except for my bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar"—the Dursleys had reassured the school that I was worth bullying, and daily beatings had begun shortly thereafter.

The fact that I _had_ to have been the speckiest, scrawniest first-year in all of England was just the light dusting of powdered sugar on top of the sundae, and within two weeks I'd been called up to the headmaster's office for "long-term disciplinary action." According to various less-than-reputable sources, that could mean suspension, expulsion or public execution.

My relatives were invited to discuss the situation with us, and they promptly made it worse.

"Do your worst," Vernon had told the headmaster agreeably, "we'd like nothing more than for you to beat some discipline into him. He's always causing trouble at home—talking back and lazing about. You've got to stamp that nonsense out of them while they're still young, you know."

And it only went faster downhill from there. The following week I was transferred to the Delinquent Reformation Program—the public education system's last chance for my generation's future criminals. It was held in a smaller building on the east side of the grounds, away from the main building—which contained my generation's future victims.

On the very first Monday of classes in the DRP, a boy named Timothy Stanton had taken a liking to me. He wasn't particularly fast or smart or strong, but since he'd hit puberty early he was a head taller than I was. He displayed his affection by punching me on the nose and pushing me headfirst into a pillar supporting the entryway.

After I'd collapsed, he stepped on my stomach and found the strangled squeak I made hilarious. So hilarious, in fact, that he stepped on my stomach twice more before lunch. Shortly after that, I had peed blood for the first time—peeing blood is one of those activities which never get any easier with practice.

I suffered under his gracious hospitality all day, and took the opportunity to thank him after school. He'd just left the DRP building, and I'd been waiting for him with a present: I'd nicked a small manor stone from the grounds during lunch, and it had been weighing down my book bag ever since.

The second his abnormally large body cleared the doorway, I shouted, "Oi, Tim!" and swung my bag at him, clipping the side of his surprised face and sending him crashing to the pavement.

Nobody even _breathed_ while I stared down at the barely-conscious boy, everyone melted away like hot wax from a flame. They'd all looked frightened of me—frightened of the knobbliest little first year.

And then I was gasping for air, laughing so hard that I couldn't stand straight. Tim moaned at the loud noise, rolling to his side and clutching at his temples feebly.

I had learned something important just then; humans were fragile animals. No matter how much one resembled a gorilla, it didn't take much at all to hurt them. A well-aimed rock, a length of wood, even a fork nicked from the lunch room—or in this case, a makeshift flail.

And despite this delicateness, we counted among our numbers the most powerful animals on the planet.

One of the key characteristics that distinguished humans among the thousand thousands of Earth's creatures, and certain humans above others, was their ability to use tools. From the first caveman with a crudely-hewn spear to James Bond and his technical gadgetry, humans triumphed over one another by using tools and a dash of old-fashioned ingenuity.

The other key characteristic, given more to prominent historical figures and less to the nameless masses, was an unconquerable human spirit. It was our drive to live—and to fight _hard_ for that life. Some people were content to flow through life, gently giving in to death with some variation of "it was my time to go." Other people—the ones historians tended to write their books about—would claw and bite for every breath of air.

That sunny September day, with a stilled pool of fellow delinquents surrounding me and my fallen foe, I embraced those characteristics fully: if I was going to keep my head above water in this ocean full of sharks, I was going to have to strap on some massive fins and _start kicking_.

And I'd been kicking ever since.

I never gave up an inch; I never stayed down when I got knocked about. I just spat out the blood, wiped my mouth and attacked right back. It kept me from getting into a lot more fights—most people weren't looking for a good brawl, after all. They just wanted to release some pent-up aggression on someone who wasn't going to be much of a challenge. It was a power issue, not any sort of need for a fight between equals.

Not that I won all those fights, or even most of them—I looked even _more_ specky than ever before, now that all the normal, peaceful students in my class had been supplanted by the largest, hairiest boys in Stonewall. But these large, hairy classmates learned quickly: that skinny boy in the corner with the bright green eyes...that was Harry Potter—and if they wanted a piece of him...they'd better be ready to _bleed_ for it.

After another encounter with Tim—in which he'd thoughtfully sanded down the splinters on my cafeteria chair with my face—I borrowed a hacksaw from the metal shop across the grounds and cut off the grips of his shiny new bicycle's handlebars while it was chained to the rack.

I thought it was a tasteful and understated modification. Just being there when he saw my handiwork, watching as his face turned the color of old porridge, was worth the beating I got for it.

I kept those two short lengths of metal I'd cut off, finding that they were quite useful in a scrap: I'd grip one in each hand and they braced my fists, making my punches hurt more.

I had learned a lot over the last three years, and most of my lessons had been in pugilism. The rest of my education had been learning how to stay conscious while my classmates learned the same lessons I had.

The Delinquent Reformation Program was only afforded one building with three rooms and a cafeteria. The first three years were together in the smallest classroom, and even as a third year I was one of the shortest students in the room. We had weekly packets of actual coursework to do, which were given out by year, and we always ended each day with an impassioned lecture on precisely why we were doomed to become the wasted sediment of our meticulously filtered society.

The lecture ended, as usual, with the erupting cheers of the future gritty residue, and I stayed after, as usual, to attempt to persuade Mr. Mason to transfer me back to the standard program. I didn't _want_ to turn into sediment.

He would never agree to transfer me back, of course, but the day I stopped fighting it was the day I started dying inside.

There was only one day of classes left before Summer Hols, and I was very much looking forward to eight idyllic weeks away from these incomparably brutish children. They were all so singly focused on causing each other pain—I felt _less_ educated every day I attended class.

The DRP building was on the East side of the grounds, but we still had to walk past the main building on our way out the gate each day. Normally, this was nothing out of the ordinary.

Today, however, I was met with the sight of something less-than-ordinary: A group of tall boys from the main building were huddled around a short, reedy girl who looked terrified out of her wits. From the stripes on their ties, I could tell they were in their last year at Stonewall. They were probably doing something stupid for a send-off.

It was late enough in the day that most of the students had already left, but more than a few teachers were still around; they'd break it up eventually. I did my best to ignore it and kept walking toward the gate. It was probably just a bit of fun.

I heard a shrill shriek, and my head whipped around of its own accord—one of the boys had grabbed her bag, which she'd been gripping tightly, so another boy had started yanking on her hair to separate them.

I could feel the skin on my knuckles stretching tight around my shaking fists, my eyes narrowed to slits.

I was cross with the girl for making herself an easy target, of course; walking around alone and being unaware of her surroundings, but I was absolutely _livid_ with the older students. They'd dumped her bag out on the grass, and the girl was just sitting where she'd been knocked down, crying pathetically. One of them started grinding his foot into her bag.

I really wished she wouldn't cry: crying girls terrified me. Girls in _general_ terrified me, because there weren't any in the DRP—and because I was in the DRP, girls tended to be just as terrified of _me_.

I hadn't said more than ten words to any girl in my entire life, and Aunt Petunia didn't count as a girl. I had no idea what to do or say around them; I just got more and more agitated. And nothing on earth made me more incredibly agitated than a shaking, sobbing _girl_.

But seeing innocent people treated with such cruelty caused something cold to twist inside of me. I always got swept away by my strange sense of duty at times like these. I knew it was useless to fight against the tide that was crashing against me, pushing me toward this conflict that was so obviously none of my business.

I called it my _'saving people thing'_, and it had caused me a colossal amount of grief over the years. I'd had plenty of quiet days whose peace had been shattered simply because of my stupid inability to _let things lie_—if I saw it happening, and knew it shouldn't be happening, I couldn't help but try to stop it from happening. And there were a lot of things that shouldn't be happening, but happened in the DRP all the same.

_So that's your idea of fun, is it? _I jogged over to the group of boys with as much enthusiasm as I could fake. "Oi! That looks like fun, mates, let me help you out!"

Several of the older students frowned in confusion, until I drew close enough for them to make out the shiny black lapel pin that designated me as a member of the iniquitous Delinquent Reformation Program. Everyone at Stonewall knew the sort of blokes that were sent there, and a few of them smirked as I budged into the circle.

With a conspiring wink to the older students, I watched the wisplike girl stare up at my lapel pin with renewed horror stretching across her pale face. "In the DRP, there's something special we do to people this scrawny. Watch carefully, mates..."

Digging around in my sloppily-stitched trouser pockets, I found the lengths of Tim's handlebars and gripped them tightly in my hands.

I'd already dropped two of the boys before the other four realized what was happening, and punched a third one hard in the chest as he lunged at me. I felt my arm quiver and nearly buckle under the combined force of our momentums, and the boy curled inward with a hoarse, gasping breath as he crashed to the grass.

The other three took off running toward the gate as I shouted vulgarities after them. _Those cowards left the rest of their gang behind. I wonder what I should do to them...maybe tie their trousers around their ankles?_

Before I could decide what to do with the moaning students on the ground, the thin girl burst into tears, wailing at the top of her lungs. I winced and turned to face her, my rage swiftly being replaced with unreserved _panic_.

"Right, erm...I'll help you pick your books up and all, just..." I tucked my handlebars back into my pockets, grimacing at how extraordinarily shrill and _loud_ this tiny thing's voice was—and how it _wouldn't stop_. "Could you just...look, stop crying! Please...I can't...just _stop_...oh, sod it!"

Abandoning the books, I turned and ran back towards my own bag as fast as I could. I snatched it up without breaking pace and dashed along the hedge toward the gate. I just couldn't deal with crying girls.

* * *

The next morning I was met at the gate by the deputy headmaster, who guided me firmly by the shoulder into the headmaster's office. The headmaster was a short, balding man by the name of Robert Saxton, and he wore his brown tweed suit every single day, no matter how hot it got.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter, do sit down," the man said pleasantly, though I knew from long experience that his perpetually soft voice had nothing to do with the words that came out of his mouth.

"Yes, Sir. What is it this time?" I asked morosely as I threw myself into the chair across from the headmaster's desk. The last day of term, and I had to start off on a sour note.

"I've been informed by several students that you deliberately provoked a fight yesterday after school, with our _normal_ students, no less, and caused serious injuries to three of them. Would you say that is an accurate summary of yesterday afternoon's events?" the balding man smiled at me placidly.

I bristled at that, hearing my voice get louder of its own accord, "I didn't start anything! They were bullying some little girl, and I can't stand for that sort of thing!"

"Oh, come now, Mr. Potter. You're in the DRP, and you honestly expect me to believe that you were trying to protect some girl?"

My face heated uncomfortably, noticing the implied accusation that I was not only a bully, but a liar as well. I _hated_ being called a liar. "It's the truth!" I scowled, "And I never wanted to be in your stupid reformation program in the first place!"

The headmaster shook his head in amusement, "Well? What do you think, William?"

I thought it curious that the Mr. Saxton was looking over my shoulder. I whirled around and startled when I realized there had been a boy sitting in the back corner of the room the entire time. I recognized him from yesterday on the field; he was the one who had dumped out the girl's bag. "You!" I snapped accusatorily.

William talked over me, a smug smirk on his face. "Yeah, Dad, that's him. He dumped that girl's bag out for laughs, and he nearly put Pete and Nick in the hospital when they tried to stop him. We're not in the DRP like him and the rest of those thugs, so fighting with us is forbidden. He's a menace; he should be expelled!"

My mouth hung open in shock as my stomach plummeted through the floor. _Dad? Oh, hell._

Smiling widely now, Robert said, "My son is a boy of uncompromising principles, Mr. Potter, unlike you. He doesn't lie, and he certainly doesn't bully little girls. I'm afraid that I have no choice but to agree with his assessment: Since the students you assaulted were indeed students of the main building, you have committed an unpardonable offense. Mr. Potter, you are hereby expelled from this school and banned from the grounds."

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but I couldn't think of a single thing that stood a chance of making this disappear. My mouth shut with an audible _click_ and instead I focused on trying to burn holes in Mr. Saxton's shiny, balding head with my eyes.

"I'll be informing your parents of your withdrawal from the school by noon today. I wish you the best of luck in life, Mr. Potter. You are free to go." With a curt nod to the deputy headmaster, he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk with that stupid, _stupid_ smile still stuck to his face.

I shot to my feet and glared at the boy, and then whirled around to face his father. _Of all the rotten luck!_ "Instead of wishing me luck, you could've just listened to me when I first came here. And they're _not_ my parents!" I bit off the last few words, grabbing my books and trudging out the door.

_That's it. That is IT!_

I stomped each step loudly on the way down as I stewed in the absurd injustice I'd just suffered, not bothering to wait for the deputy headmaster to 'escort' me off of the grounds.

With Stonewall closing its doors to me, there was nowhere left for me to go except St. Brutus's—a quaint little Institution just a stone's throw away from the river _Styx_. From the stories Vernon had told me, I half-expected the headmaster there to have red skin, horns and a pitchfork.

Anywhere but there.

Anywhere...

A mad idea had taken root in my head just then.

Instead of turning right out of the gate to head back to Privet Drive, I set off left toward the post office. I still wasn't sure what to think of that strange letter, but I was certainly willing to take the risk—even if it turned out to be nothing more than someone's idea of a clever prank.

_What do I have to lose, anyway? Respect? Never had any. Pride? Stomped out of me by second year._

I didn't have the foggiest idea how to go about catching an owl, much less training one to say, "Still got a spot for Harry Potter? And perhaps a dead mouse or two for me? I'm knackered..._hoot!_" but I was going to start by trying to send a reply through the postal service. Despite my doubts, I was going to write this Albus Dumbledore. Surely—if there _was_ a Hogwarts—I would be welcomed with open arms to take my rightful place inside its venerable halls.

I hadn't the foggiest idea where to get most of the items on that ridiculous list of his, nor did I have any money to buy such items. And of course, I couldn't afford the tuition at Hogwarts, even if I did have everything I needed. But I had to convince him to let me in regardless.

I'd beg and grovel pathetically if I had to, but first I'd try to reason with him. He was a wizard; he should appreciate an articulate, logical argument:

_As Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore's prime concern should be the overall well-being of his dear pupils._

_If Harry Potter isn't allowed to attend Hogwarts for any reason—such as a complete lack of books, equipment and tuition—then Harry Potter will be forced to beat one of Albus Dumbledore's dear pupils half to death, and take _their_ books, equipment and tuition._

_Therefore, logically, Albus Dumbledore's prime concern should be allowing Harry Potter to attend Hogwarts._

_QED._

_QE-bleedin'-D._

I cracked my knuckles as I neared my goal, determined to make this Dumbledore fellow see how positively _uninspiring_ Hogwarts had been these past three years without me. He seemed like a reasonable chap...

* * *

Vernon was waiting for me in the living room when I finally showed up at Number 4 Privet Drive. He had a disturbingly happy smile on his face as I crossed over the threshold, and intercepted me before I could reach the sanctity of my cupboard.

"You, boy, are grounded _forever_," he sang. Someone must've rang him with the news of my expulsion. "And in eight short weeks, you'll be attending St. Brutus's. I finally have an excuse to send you somewhere proper. Have I told you their school motto? _'If you spare the rod, you spoil the child.'_ Isn't that just marvelous, Petunia? Now there's a place that knows a thing or two about discipline!"

Even though he sounded ecstatic, and half of him probably was, I could see his face coloring deeper and deeper shades, finally settling somewhere between plum and puce. Angry veins throbbed in his temples as his beady eyes narrowed. No doubt he was wondering if the neighbors knew yet. He jerked his eyes sharply toward the stairs, and I saw the motion so often that I knew precisely what it meant:

"_Go—cupboard—stay—no meals."_

I clenched my jaw and threw my bookbag into my cupboard, following closely after it; I knew the routine by now. I hunched over and sat on my bed, careful not to knock my head against the ceiling. I'd gotten too tall to even sit up straight in my small room under the stairs, and I had to sleep in a fetal position at night to keep my legs off of the cold floor. Another year in here and I'd be permanently hunched over.

I watched Vernon slam my door shut and heard the double locks sliding into place as he started humming merrily. "You'll have chores each day, and you won't eat 'til they're finished. If you sneak out: no food. If you talk back: no food. If you even _think_ about complaining: no food."

I rubbed my nearly-bald-except-for-my-bangs head in frustration as I exhaled sharply. _How much worse can this day get?_

Vernon's beady eyes appeared at the slit in the top of the door, "Also, Marge will be visiting in a few days and I promise you, boy, that you'll have nothing but bread crusts and drain water for the rest of the summer if you step even _one toe_ out of line while she's here. D'you hear me? Not one toe out of line!"

I bit back the angry retort that was nearly out of my mouth already, knowing that I wouldn't get anything at all to eat tomorrow unless I stayed quiet through supper. My stomach groaned mutinously.

_Of course._

* * *

The days passed by in a blur of mindless chores, backaches and blisters.

Marge's visit was uneventful, despite her customary defamation of my looks, my career opportunities and my breeding. As a token of his gratitude, Vernon had given me increasingly worthless chores: I'd turned over the flower bed twice already, and the past three days I'd been digging holes in the backyard and then filling them right back in.

By the end of the second week, I'd written Hogwarts off as a hoax and bitterly hoped that they got a good laugh out of my brilliant reasoning skills.

But seventeen days into my punishment, I received another letter addressed to me. I crammed it into my pocket and took the rest of the post back to the table, then bounced back to my cupboard with barely restrained enthusiasm.

It was the same yellowish parchment with the same green ink and purple wax seal. There was no stamp on this one, either. It made me even more sceptical, but I didn't see the harm in opening it. Would it be a letter of acceptance, an apology or just a written affirmation that some stupid berk had been taking the mickey?

I felt dizzy with anticipation as I broke the wax seal and tipped out the envelope.

A train ticket for King's Cross station fell into my aching, dirt-stained hand. I was to take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o'clock. Looked like logic prevailed, I knew the headmaster would see it my—

_Hang on._

_Platform nine and three-quarters?_

I felt a sharp pinch of frustration forming between my eyes.

_But this ticket looks so authentic! Why would anybody go through so much trouble just to have a laugh at my expense? I'll bet it would even get me past the ticket barrier..._

With a defeated sigh, I recalled that my only other option was St. Brutus's. Even if there was no Hogwarts, even if there was no platform nine and three-quarters—I'd take the train from any platform at all, so long as it led away from this pit of despair.

The Dursleys would never have driven me anywhere but a lock-up, so asking them for a lift was right out. I'd have to leave a few days early and go on foot, but it wouldn't take more than two days at a good clip.

As I stared down at the ticket in my trembling hands, I felt an electric tingle crawling under my skin; if I was lucky, this summer would be the last time I'd ever have to see my rotten relatives.

Come the twenty-ninth of August, I'd be heading to London.

* * *

It hadn't taken any convincing at all to keep Petunia from shaving my head over the summer holiday. This was not due to any maternal, nurturing conviction; rather, she knew I'd have a better chance of heatstroke if my hair was longer. Fortunately, it also meant I had a nearly-respectable head of hair by the time I had to leave.

No amount of struggling could make my hair lay flat, however, and I caught Petunia narrowing her eyes at my hair several times, perhaps wishing it could cut itself if she glared hard enough. I hoped I could set out before she decided the benefit of leaving my hair alone—potential heatstroke—was no longer worth the cost, which was having me look nearly-respectable.

Over the last month, I had nicked a few essentials from around the house for the trip. Mostly dried food and supplies that I'd found in Dudley's second bedroom, and a coat hanger from Petunia's closet to open my cupboard door. I'd taken my cousin's old poncho from primary school, which was still large enough to double as a tent if I folded it over some rope, and I'd also liberated his old racing bike while my relatives were out celebrating Vernon's latest deal at Grunning's.

I'd moved the schedule forward one day because of that, and couldn't wipe the grin off of my face no matter how many times I had to fill in that damnable hole in the backyard. The bike was hidden in the long hedge at the end of the street, tires patched and inflated. I just hoped the brakes still worked properly—I didn't know how to patch those.

With two spare changes of clothes, Dudley's poncho and some snacks for the trip, I'd already stuffed my small pack to capacity.

The night before my grand exit, I wrote a short note to the Dursleys expressing everything I had left unsaid all these years:

_Dear Dursleys,_

_ I know you were looking forward to sending me off to St. Brutus's in a week, but I've reached an epiphany—I'd rather be anywhere else. I'm not sure where, yet; I suppose I'll just keep going 'til I find something worth stopping for._

_With any luck, I'll never see you again. Hope you're as happy about that as I am._

_Cheers,_

_Harry Potter_

At five o'clock the next morning, I poked the hooked end of the coat hanger out from the slits in my cupboard door. It didn't take more than three minutes of scratching around to locate the deadbolt knobs and jerk them loose.

After pulling on my least-tattered jeans and nicking Dudley's lunch meat from the refrigerator, I snatched up my rucksack, crept silently out the front door and shut it as quietly as I could.

Even if Hogwarts didn't exist, I wouldn't turn around and head home with my tail tucked between my legs. No matter what I found at platform nine and three-quarters, I didn't plan on ever coming back to Privet Drive.

I pulled Dudley's old racing bicycle out of the hedge at the end of the street, tugged a tangled vine free of the front tire, and set off toward London.

I didn't look back.

On the bicycle it only took me 'til noon to reach London, but it was after dusk before I managed to locate King's Cross station. City people, I'd found, were notoriously disinterested in the woes of passersby. The rain had begun pattering incessantly against the asphalt, nearly drenching me in the time it took me to don Dudley's old poncho, and I hadn't any money to rent a room.

I slept sitting against the wall in a nearby alley that night, gratified that I'd thought to bring some protection from the hammering rain and fervently hoping that this wasn't all some foul prank.

* * *

After finally rising from my fitful night's sleep, I washed myself as best I could at the sink in the men's loo. I'd washed myself in enough sinks that I had gotten pretty quick about it, and the soap was free. I found my ticket in the front pouch of my pack and made my way through the ticket barrier, stowing my poncho and shaking out my sopping hair.

It was a good thing I'd come so early, because—as expected—I couldn't see a platform nine and three-quarters anywhere. There was a big plastic number nine on one platform, a dividing barrier between the two, and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all.

I set my jaw, feeling my mulish pride start to kick. _I'm not going anywhere. I've got 'til eleven o'clock to see if this stupid platform exists, and I'm not leaving until I'm on that train or I've missed it!_

The hours stretched on as I sat against the wall, staring broodingly at platforms nine and ten and wondering if there were any other students coming. How big could a school of witchcraft and wizardry really be? Wizards had to be rare; otherwise they'd be splashed all over the papers, wouldn't they? What if there were only a dozen students in the whole of Europe who had received letters like mine, and Hogwarts was really just a small boarding house for the most extraordinary sort of people?

The question that nagged at me the most: how could _I_ be any sort of exceptional? Even if there _was_ a Hogwarts, how could I have any place in it?

At ten minutes to eleven o'clock, my patience all but worn through, I finally spotted my first glimpse of odd.

I noticed a cluster of chattering teenagers—all pushing overloaded trolleys—walking straight toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Two of the teenagers had cages perched precariously atop their trunks.

And, wonder upon wonders, those cages contained _owls_.

The coincidence was far too improbable. I shot to my feet and chased after them, wondering if I should call out and get their attention. But what would I say?

Just as they reached the barrier, a crowd of tourists swarmed in front of me and by the time the last backpack cleared away, they'd vanished. I stared at the spot where they'd been headed, but I saw no swinging trapdoors. It was still the same barrier it had been before.

I was thoroughly confused.

As I swallowed back curses, a line formed to my left composed mostly of redheads. Strange words like 'omnioculars' and 'quidditch' were being thrown about, and I felt that my best chances of getting through that barrier lay with copying them.

They were marching, one at a time, _into_ the barrier between platforms nine and ten. I very nearly punched myself. _Of course it would be something mad like that._

Since there was already a queue for that side of the barrier wall, I strode to the next face of the barrier—like picking the next line at the greengrocer's—and marched into it straightaway.

A dull _crack!_...blinding, shuddering pain...spinning unsteadiness...and warm, muddled laughter...

_That can't be right._

I blinked harshly and shook my head to clear it of the hazy vertigo that always followed a good blow to the head, and realized that someone—a girl, from the sound of it—really _was_ laughing at me.

The well-worn pavement was cold and wet under my back. I could feel several new scrapes and a decent lump forming on my forehead—just what I needed on the first day of my new life. I raised my head awkwardly to find the inconsiderate source of such enjoyment.

"Oi!" I snapped, rolling to my side. I felt my blood start to flow again as I sucked in a quick breath and tried to gather my wobbly feet under me, annoyance and embarrassment warring for dominance. "Not my most impressive performance, I know, but d'you really have to rub it in?"

I felt the world start to tilt, and braced myself as I spilled to the ground again. I moaned in as manly a tone as I could manage as my eyes screwed shut.

_I guess I'll just lay here for a few moments, then, and hope she goes away._

But she didn't go away, apparently, because the next moment I was being guided slowly up against a wall. I angled against the cold barrier gingerly, still quite dazed.

"Erm, sorry—I thought you did that on purpose...of course you'd be offended. Are you all right, then?" One of the hands left my shoulder and pressed delicately against my forehead, and the warmth of it sent a shiver down my entire body. "Does that hurt?"

I felt twice as dizzy as I'd been the moment before. _What's this strange scent...something flowery...I'm supposed to be angry right now...but what was I angry about? Hmm..._

"Hey, are you all right? Don't go to sleep just now, I think that's bad for head injuries..." the hand insistently shook my shoulder. I batted at it halfheartedly, too distracted to care. I felt my fringe of hair swept up for a short second, and the hands stilled.

Before I could find my voice, I felt delicate fingers nudging along my forehead—she'd found my scar, apparently.

"Nothing hurts at all," I heard myself mumbling, "I feel a bit like I'm floating, actually..."

"Are you..." I heard her repeat, tracing her finger along my lightning-shaped scar.

Growing up in my situation—with the Dursleys and the boys-only DRP—I'd never had anyone reach out and touch me like this, being so _tender_ with me. It felt strangely intimate, with her fingers softly probing my oldest scar and my newest lump. I had to at least see who this strange girl was.

Blinking unfocusedly, I found a pale, freckled face topped with the reddest hair I had ever seen. She didn't seem to have noticed that my eyes were open; her entire focus was on my forehead. I'd always been singularly proud of my lightning-shaped scar, but I felt oddly self-conscious from how intently she was staring at it.

Not only that, but this was both the longest conversation and the most physical contact I'd ever had with a girl. She was a _lot_ cuter than I had been expecting, and the way she was staring at me, like a cat with a new ball of yarn...

My dizziness might not have been entirely from running into that barrier anymore.

Her eyes finally drifted down to mine, and the skin beneath her dusting of freckles started glowing bright red as her hand froze mid-prod.

I blinked at her silently.

"So you're okay?" she asked after she'd snatched her hand back and stared at several faraway bricks discerningly.

"Mmm? Yeah..." I agreed dazedly. _Why did I think girls were so terrifying? This one isn't so bad. She seems...yeah. She seems..._

"Okay...I'm going to go through the barrier now. It's open just on this side; you can't get in anyplace else."

"Okay..."

"Right. Well...nice meeting you. Bye."

"Yeah..."

And then she slipped from my field of vision. I leaned my head back until it knocked against the barrier and stared vacantly at the ceiling for several long seconds.

_Hm..._

_Wasn't there something I was supposed to be doing just now..._

Realization twisted my gut. Panicked, I bolted upright and caught myself against the wall. _She laughed at me so harshly, and she would've just left me there to miss the train! How cruel! Now I see that harpy for what she really is!_

I wasn't quite sure what I was so angry about, but I knew that anger was far more comfortable to deal with than the pleasant haziness that still suffused my senses.

I snatched up my rucksack and rounded the corner, throwing myself headlong into the barrier between platforms nine and ten with all the recklessness that I had managed the first time.

This time I sailed straight through with no resistance.

A scarlet steam engine waited next to a platform packed with people, and I found myself grinning so widely that it hurt my cheeks. _It's real...it's all real...there's a Hogwarts and an Albus Dumbledore! And there are size 2 pewter cauldrons and dragon hide gloves and owls that can talk and broomsticks! And I'm never going to set one foot inside St. Brutus's!_

Unable to quell the triumphant shout that erupted from my chest, I ignored the sidelong glances and whispers and stole past the chattering crowds and the cats of every color. I had to get on the Hogwarts Express as fast as I could. The irrational bit of my brain insisted on reaching it before I had to blink, which might've caused the train to disappear again.

And there were so many wizards and witches! I had been worried about there only being a dozen or so, but there had to be one hundred people still milling about on the platform, and more hanging out of the compartment windows chatting with people outside. They'd all looked so normal that I hadn't thought anything of it, but they must've been capable of turning me into a teacup for knocking past them so abruptly.

I wove through the crowd to the back of the train and found the last empty compartment available, jumping the steps up to the train door. I locked myself in and threw the shutters closed, and then tried to convince myself that I wasn't hiding from any irritated wizards—I just stood a better chance of surviving the trip to Hogwarts if nobody saw me.

Several long minutes later, I felt the train shift under me as it began to move. I heard shouted goodbyes and I'll-owl-you-soons from the platform, and then houses began flashing past the window. I felt a thrill of excitement so strong that I took to pacing the short compartment.

Despite my fears, despite my lack of money and books and equipment and clothes, despite my lack of any plan beyond "show up and beg," the future felt as bright as a cloudless day. A grin stretched across my face as the train hurtled onward.

I didn't know what I was going to—but it had to be better than what I was leaving behind.


	2. Accidental Magic

Chapter Two

* * *

Accidental Magic

* * *

I managed to stay undetected for nearly the entire trip, pacing anxiously and wondering what I'd do once I reached Hogwarts. Even with the train ticket, I had no idea what awaited me or if I'd even be able to attend. Perhaps Albus Dumbledore thought it a clever joke to have me come all the way to Hogwarts just to tell me that I didn't belong there?

Through my time at Stonewall, I'd learned that I did my best planning when my life depended on it. Being constantly chased by bullies twice my size taught me to think on my feet, and I rarely had the luxury of planning my escape or revenge in advance.

Locked in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, barreling toward a school I knew nothing about, with no supplies, no friends and no idea of what to expect, all I felt was anticipation—like a current of electricity rolling beneath my skin.

Who needed a plan, anyway? I'd always made it up as I went along, and I'd gotten on just fine so far.

My confidence lasted until I heard someone rapping sharply on the glass. Preparing myself for my future as a teacup, I flung open the door and met the surprised face of Dorothy, the snack lady. Three 'no, thank you's and one 'straight away' later, I turned back to my room in horror: those normal-looking wizards and witches had all donned their highly _ab_normal robes already, leaving me to stick out just as I had on my first day at Stonewall. I wouldn't allow my career at Hogwarts to start off so poorly!

_No choice, then; I'll have to get shifty._

The rain pattered harder against the glass the further we rode, and it was nearly half an hour later that I finally saw the lights of a small village.

When the Hogwarts Express started slowing as it reached the station, I levered the outside door open and launched myself into the sodden darkness. After dropping a few feet I hit the ground squarely; I slid for several yards, but managed to keep my footing and avoid a tumble in the mud. The rain was coming down so hard that my clothes were soaked through in the time it took me to get my bearings. Slinging my rucksack on my shoulders, I ran as fast as I could after the train and up the hill toward the station.

Sneaking around the side of the station, I tried to locate Hogwarts so I could proceed there directly. If I didn't mingle with the robed students, I wouldn't stick out and get in fights because of it! I allowed myself a short pause to revel in my brilliance, and then I crept forward towards the well-lit main street of the village. Clouds of thick, glowing raindrops glittered around the lampposts.

_Okay,_ I thought, scowling determinedly as I sloshed toward the street,_ I'm going to get to Hogwarts, find that girl and tell her what I really think of her! Yeah, I'll grab her hand as she's walking by, she'll look over at me and I'll tell her straight away, "I love—"_

I shook my head, wondering where in the _hell_ that thought had come from...

_No! I've got to tell her how cruel she was to laugh at me in front of all those people and leave me sitting outside the barrier! I could've missed the train!_

A cold hand snaked around my bicep and jerked me to a halt, nearly stopping my heart in the process. "Where did you come from, boy? And where are your robes?" the voice behind the hand was equally cold.

"Er... I haven't got any?" I turned to face my captor, cursing how weak my answer sounded. He had long, black hair and eyes that were cold and empty and made me think of dark tunnels.

The man's lips curled into a sneer as he steered me toward the station. "What could you possibly learn at Hogwarts if you can't even remember to pack your robes?"

"Well I'm working on that, y'see. I couldn't find out where to get most of the stuff on the list, and some of the items seemed a bit dodgy, anyway..." This man, whoever he was, reminded me of the bully teachers in the DRP. It set my teeth on edge.

"What house did you say you were in?" The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I didn't," I retorted, feeling belligerent as I ripped my arm free of his grasp. I'd just gotten free of the DRP, there was no way I'd let anyone start bullying me now.

The man clearly didn't approve of my answer, and his other hand whipped out with a long, pointy stick, which he pointed at my head in a very clear show of force.

_Is that a wand? A real wand?_ I wondered excitedly as it came to rest between my eyes.

"Since we're not technically on Hogwarts property yet, I can't be punished for demonstrating why I am _not_ a man to be trifled with. Brace yourself; this is _really _going to hurt—"

With his wand arm in the way, he didn't notice my fist until it crashed into the side of his head. He staggered sideways gracelessly, and I was running full-tilt toward the archway to the train station before his knees hit the mud.

Tossing out my original plan of making my way straight to the school—which I hadn't yet located—I decided that losing him in the crowd and following them in was a splendid idea. Even if I didn't quite fit in, I'd be sure to find Hogwarts if I was with the students.

Besides, the thought of being stared at by my future classmates was more appealing than finding out what a full-grown wizard with a wand was capable of.

Despite the strange looks I was receiving when I budged through a soaked group of older students, I felt my plan was going well enough to relax and look around. I saw students piling into horseless carriages ahead of me, and was well on my way toward the front of the line when an impossibly loud voice rang over the rain, wind and chatter:

"Attention all students—this is Professor Snape! Bring me the black-haired boy wearing glasses and muggle clothing, dead or alive, and you'll receive _fifty_ house points!"

The entire procession stopped in their tracks, and I realized with mounting dread that I recognized that voice—it was the man I'd just knocked around. _He's a Professor? I sure know how to pick 'em..._

Voices swarmed inside the crowd as head after head after _head_ swiveled toward me, eyeing me like a side of beef.

"If I catch him, I can get house points?"

"Snape's points, before the term even begins?"

"That's him right there, isn't it?"

"He doesn't look very tough..."

"He hasn't even got his wand out, let's get him..."

"Fifty house points..."

In the span of five seconds, the entire crowd had gone quiet as a monastery. Pockets were rummaged through...long, pointy sticks were drawn...

I felt my face twisting at the injustice of it.

_It just figures!_

I grabbed the closest student by the collar with a quick "Sorry!" and ducked, pulling him over me in a desperate attempt to shield myself from whatever horrendous things would be spat out of the ends of those sticks. I heard a yell of surprise, then a chorus of nonsensical words shouted all at once, and then the air around me was burning with bright beams of every color. It was utter pandemonium.

Hooking my arm across the unfortunate soul who had stood too close to me, I charged out of the fray as fast as I could—dragging the boy behind me like a plow as I prayed these students weren't bloodthirsty enough to hit one of their own for fifty house points.

The ground erupted around me as more gibberish words were screamed by the students; I ditched my human shield and dove between the horseless carriages, my feet scrabbling for purchase against the slick, wet ground. I raced forward between the rows, desperately trying to evade the mob of magical teenagers.

My heart pounded disjointedly as the _squish_ of a hundred muddy footfalls chased after me, and I wondered for one brief moment why I'd assumed the students of Hogwarts—a school of witchcraft and wizardry—would be any better than my classmates in the DRP.

They were turning out to be far worse; my classmates could hit pretty hard, but these students—even the speckiest of them—all had pointy sticks that could do unimaginably horrible things to people. These students were _terrifying_.

I could hear shouts of alarm as the crowd spread out, trying to blow me up or turn me into goo, and I was nearly out of carriages to hide behind. A familiar face was standing alone ahead of me, about to duck into the first carriage in line.

"Found you!" I shouted as I dashed toward the redheaded girl I'd met at King's Cross.

Her head whipped toward me. "Wha—"

"Hide me, quick," I whispered urgently, "they're after me!" I reached her and bent over my knees, nursing the stitch in my side. Dragging that boy had taken a lot out of me.

After a long moment, I felt her pushing me toward a carriage. "Get in," she snapped.

I stepped up into the carriage and she piled in behind me, shoving my head down into the space between the seats and shutting the door behind her. I would have protested the rough treatment if I hadn't been so focused on keeping my blood inside my body.

"Why am I doing this," I heard her mutter as the rain hammered against the top of the horseless carriage, "Snape's going to _kill_ me..."

I knew I was supposed to be complaining to her about something, but I couldn't seem to find anything to say. Her cold, wet hand on my head and the sweet, flowery smell that hung about her were making my mind go blank again. So for several long seconds I just focused on catching my breath and not getting found.

"I meant to ask before, on the platform, but..." the girl whispered down to me, her fingers threading through the hair at the top of my head, "that scar on your forehead, could you be—"

Before she could finish her question, the door was flung open. "I'll deal with you later, Weasley. Now get out of the way—I know he's in here."

"But Professor, he isn't—"

"Don't presume to tell me what he is. Out."

I felt the carriage lurch as she stepped out with a muttered curse, and my heart sank past my knees as a hand grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me out roughly.

As I brought my head up, I could see the purplish scratches where I'd hit him about the head and the mud that covered nearly half of his robes. His black eyes were furious as he leveled his wand at me. "Thought you would attack me and hide behind your little girlfriend, did you? I'll have you expelled before the night is out!"

_Good luck with that... I'm not even a student yet,_ I thought darkly. I hadn't even made it onto the school proper before being expelled this time. That had to be some sort of record.

"And you, Weasley—you'll be joining him on the trip home."

"What?" she shrieked, glaring up at the professor, "I didn't do anything, that's not fair!"

"You hid this boy after I clearly stated he was to be brought to me. I tolerate your idiocy in my class because I must, but I'll not tolerate insubordination!" he screamed down at her, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth.

_He wants to expel her with me, _I thought morosely, _and it's my fault she got dragged into this._ I felt my fists clenching painfully tight—I would _not_ allow this girl to be expelled for me. "You leave her out of it, you overgrown bat! This is between you and me!"

"What did you call me?"

"I called you an overgrown bat! What are you going to do about it, give me deten—_Urgh!_"

Before I could finish my sentence, Snape had flicked his wand at me. I was jerked abruptly into the air by my ankle. I dangled helplessly, suspended upside-down above the professor.

_So this is magic?_ I marveled as the water that had pooled in my sneakers ran up my trouser legs. I tried to shout at him, to tell him to fight me like a man, but I couldn't get any sound to come out of my mouth no matter how hard I tried. He flicked his wand again and propelled me along the path without another word, and I jerked and twisted against the invisible fetters.

Professor Snape led me by my ankle into a gigantic castle, and—were I not consumed with thoughts of what he was about to do with me—I would've been suitably impressed by the sight. Hogwarts really was magnificent; far bigger and more imposing than I'd expected.

If I'd have been able to look back under my shoulder, I would've seen a small crowd of perhaps a dozen curious students following a distance behind us on foot. This would hardly have seemed like an important fact at the time, but by the end of the night it would prove to be crucial.

Our path twisted and turned down hallways and staircases, past suits of armor that turned their heads when we walked by and paintings that _moved_ as I stared at them. We reached a heavy oak door that looked to be centuries old, and he opened it with another flick of his wand. The dungeon he led me into was full of old, blackened cauldrons on well-worn tables.

I'd tried to ask him what the _hell_ he'd done to me, but I was still unable to speak. It was beyond infuriating, and I lashed out as best I could by flailing about childishly. I passed several cauldrons that were within arm's reach, and I pulled them onto the floor with a series of satisfyingly resonant _clangs_.

Snape whirled on me, livid, and I crashed to the unforgiving granite without warning. "You physically assaulted me, you insulted me, and now you defile my classroom?" he snapped, rummaging around in the desk at the front of the room. Behind the desk was an enormous bubbling cauldron perched over a low fire. "I'll find out everything I need to know about you, and then we're going straight to the headmaster to get you expelled!"

I felt my chance for a better life slipping through the filth-filled cracks in the floor. This man, however unpleasant he was, was a professor at Hogwarts—he'd have no trouble getting me tossed out. And then...

I didn't bother asking how he was going to get me to tell him the truth about anything. Summoning up all my courage, I gathered my feet under me and raced toward the exit. I had to get away from him and find this Dumbledore fellow before I was turned into a science experiment. I had to convince him that I belonged here!

My feet rammed into the cauldrons I'd scattered across the aisle, and I bit back a curse as shooting pain lanced across my toes. Those cauldrons were _heavy_.

"Not so fast, you little toerag—I'm not finished with you yet!" Thick green vines wrapped around my chest tightly as I reached the door, trapping my left arm and halting my forward momentum, and I finally felt my temper snap. _You want me gone? Fine! But I'm not leaving here without a bloody good brawl, Snape._

I spun on the spot, grabbed hold of the vines sprouting from his wand with my free arm and barked, "I'm Harry Potter! If you want a piece of me, you'd better be ready to _bleed_ for it!"

I stuck my bruised foot inside the nearest cauldron and launched it as hard as I could at the professor.

My aim was off, and it whistled past the bewildered professor's shoulder as his eyes went wide. The projectile crashed into the large, slimy _something_ suspended in green liquid on the shelf behind him, sending it slipping off the shelf and into the bubbling cauldron below.

"That's going to—" Snape's retort was rudely cut off by the cauldron, which had erupted in a huge, blinding fireball. The explosion flooded the room with searing heat and a deafening _kaboom!_

The vines I had been yanking on came easily now, carrying Snape's pointy stick with them. I snatched it out of the air with my free hand as the vines fell loose and pooled around my feet.

I'm still not precisely sure how it happened, but what _actually_ happened was hardly important anymore.

The truth wasn't important because the previously-mentioned curious crowd had come around the corner at that moment, still wringing water out of their robes. What they saw was that strange, black-haired boy in muggle clothes standing in the hallway with a wand in his outstretched hand—

—A wand that was pointing at a cheerily-burning potions classroom—

—A cheerily-burning potions classroom that would be found to contain a slightly-less-cheerily-burning Severus Snape.

Just seconds prior, they had heard that strange black-haired boy declare at the top of his lungs that he was Harry Potter—who is quite famous in the wizarding world, apparently.

And they _hadn't_ heard an incantation of any sort.

It was nothing but an accident, of course.

Everything had been an accident—the explosion, as well.

But even though it wasn't really my fault...even though I hadn't actually done anything _wrong_...people had a tendency to believe what they saw.

And what they saw was a strange new boy—who would prove to be precisely who he claimed to be, despite the absurd improbability of it—with his wand still outstretched, standing outside the utterly destroyed potions classroom with their dearly-loathed potions professor _still inside_. And since they hadn't heard an incantation, they'd also simply 'known' that the explosion was the result of nonverbal magic.

So, with what they saw at that moment...it couldn't be helped if they all thought it had been done by Harry Potter.

This tragic, unfortunate accident would be the cornerstone of a new legend.

_My_ legend.

After ten long seconds of stunned silence on all accounts—during which I tried to look like I knew which end was up on Professor Snape's pointy stick—a tall woman came barreling around the corner and pushed through the crowd. She had a very stern face and emerald-green robes, which billowed after her smartly.

"What's this...There's no magic in the corridors!" This authority figure—after that short disclaimer—wasted no time in brandishing her own pointy stick at the potions classroom, extinguishing the flames with aplomb.

After she'd waved most of the lingering smoke away from the classroom, a distinctly tortured moan was heard from inside. The tall woman shrieked in alarm and pitched pointy-stick-first into the cooling classroom, appearing seconds later supporting the somewhat-charred, incredibly-disheveled Professor Snape.

The blast had caught him in the back, singeing his hair and burning away a good portion of his thick robes. His head hung limply, still smoking from the heat of the blast, and his entire weight was leaning against the stern woman.

She eyed me like a wrathful eagle for one intestine-twisting moment, and then I felt the stick being plucked from my hand. "Come with me," she snapped.

I followed numbly in her wake—I didn't even attempt to resist, but instead wondered how everything had gone so wrong in such a short period of time.

* * *

And that's how I found myself in the headmaster's study for the first time, glaring defiantly at the steepled fingers and twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore as I finished relaying the entire traumatic account.

"So you see, old man—I'm the victim here! I was strung up by my ankle and dragged into a _dungeon_ by this creepy git here and everything that followed was completely innocent and accidental!"

"A most interesting tale, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said cheerfully, as if I hadn't just admitted to immolating his potions professor. "Severus, do you have anything you'd care to add to his account?"

Severus—the potions professor I'd recently admitted to immolating—was so enraged that he couldn't manage more than an occasional spit-flecked sputter. His head had only just stopped smoking, and the remaining hair was so oddly scattered that I couldn't look at him without smirking. He looked ludicrously batlike, with his hair now forming greasy ears to match his flapping cape.

Dumbledore nodded with each ragged gasp that Snape let out, as if understanding precisely what he meant to say, and then turned to the tall, stern woman standing at my other side. "Thank you very much for bringing this to my attention, Minerva. That will be all."

Minerva's brow wrinkled in confusion, "But Albus, I—"

"Leave this with me."

Though she looked as if she'd rather swallow a live hedgehog, she nodded stiffly and left the study without another word.

"Well, this is a very unfortunate set of circumstances, indeed..." Dumbledore smiled gently at both of us. "Do sit down. Lemon drop?"

I sat in the cushy chair and stared down at the bowl of yellow candies incredulously. "Erm, no thank you."

"I'm sure you're quite surprised, Mr. Potter: Hogwarts is indeed a school of witchcraft and wizardry, where we teach our students how to control magic. You may wonder how magic can exist in this day and age—it is simply something you are born with. Either you possess magical ability or you do not. Some are better at it than others, of course, but _ability_ is the critical factor. Do you understand so far, Harry?"

I felt my face heating as I nodded. I'd never been addressed so kindly or directly by a teacher before, it was disarming.

"Good. Now be a good sport and give this a wave." Dumbledore produced his own pointy stick and extended the handle to me with an encouraging nod.

"Headmaster!" Severus warned, gripping his armrests in alarm.

"This is called a wand," Dumbledore offered, ignoring Snape. "It is a required item for all students here."

I took the wand, trying not to feel foolish as I slowly raised it above my head. I brought it swishing down through the air, willing something extraordinary to happen. The entire room appeared to hold its breath, and the silence stretched into a long, painful minute.

"I was afraid of that," Dumbledore said softly, plucking his wand gently from my outstretched hand. "Straight to business, then. From what you wrote me, you received only the one acceptance letter from Hogwarts, Mr. Potter?" The question was worded lightly, but I felt uneasy as I again nodded my assent.

"Hmm..." Albus mused, "that is most unfortunate, then."

I winced, figuring I'd try to convince him to change his mind. What was the worst that could happen? "Is there any chance you'd be willing to let me stay anyway? I haven't any money, and I don't have a wand or anything else on that list of required books and equipment, but I'll do my best not to blow up any more classrooms..."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr. Potter, though not necessarily for the reasons you suspect."

My eyebrows knit in confusion, "What do you mean?"

Albus shook his head softly, "To be precise, you never should have received that letter in the first place."

I stood so suddenly that my knees sent my cushy chair skittering back over the stones. "But...but—"

"Since you were born to two Hogwarts graduates," Dumbledore explained gently, "you have literally been enrolled since the day you were born. The letter was sent during the summer you turned eleven by the enrollment charm in place at this school. Keep in mind, Harry—the original letter draws upon the _school's_ magic to be sent. Do you understand?"

I nodded slowly, not following at all.

Albus smiled, causing the corners of his mouth to crease. "Good. Now, when your letter was taken from you, the enrollment charm should have recognized it straight away through _your_ magic, increased the amount of letters and delivered them directly. The only explanation for not receiving more letters, then, is that our enrollment charm was unable to draw upon your magic."

The headmaster met my eyes searchingly, perhaps expecting that entire mess to make sense to me.

Snape, who had been seething up until this moment, now looked quite as if Christmas had come. "You mean..."

Dumbledore nodded, and Snape's face slid into an eerily cheerful grin.

"Erm..." I floundered, trying to make my question sound intelligent, "What?"

Albus sighed, looking tired. "It means that you do not possess the critical ability to learn what this school has to teach—you are incapable of performing the slightest feat of magic. This has never happened before in the history of this school, but it was a mistake that you received your letter. I'm sorry, Harry."

I shook my head, unwilling to believe the words coming out of the gentle headmaster's mouth. "No."

"I'm afraid so. You are what we wizards call a muggle—a person who possesses no magical ability."

My throat was so tight that my words sounded thready and weak. "I'm...I'm not. Test me...let me try...just give me a chance—"

Snape turned to me, a nasty sneer on his sooty face, "Don't you understand, Potter? This is a school for wizards, and you're _not_ a wizard. What could you possibly learn here?"

"But I can't go back!" I protested, finding my voice again.

Albus glanced warningly at Severus, and then continued quietly, "You will, of course, be provided with transportation back to your relatives and reimbursed from your vault at Gringott's, so that you can attend a muggle institution that will afford you the education you deserve."

"Hey! I'm not going back to my relatives! They'll send me to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, does that sound like the education I deserve?" My fists clenched into tight balls at my sides as Snape nodded happily.

"That is most unfortunate, Harry, but at least you will be safe. There are dangers in the wizarding world that you will be unable to defend yourself from," Albus warned.

"I don't care! Anything's better than St. Brutus's!" I shouted, but quieted down immediately as Dumbledore raised his hand.

"This danger I speak of..." he said gravely, "I mean your life could very well be forfeit during the course of your Hogwarts career. What you speak of is incredibly perilous."

I felt a glimmer of hope—it sounded like Dumbledore was trying to talk me out of going through with enrollment...trying to _warn_ me. That was miles better than being expelled.

"I'll take the peril! Listen...I don't know the first thing about magic, and I know I can't do any...but I'm not going anywhere. And if you make me leave, I'll tell every muggle in the Empire all about the wizarding world and Hogwarts and magic!" I grinned triumphantly, secure in the unwavering belief that this trump card would get me in.

Severus's smile turned even nastier, contorting his sallow face into a rictus. "You don't think we have ways of keeping our secret from getting out? You're even _more _of a dunderhead than I originally assumed. If that's all, Dumbledore, obliviate him already!"

My unwavering belief fizzled and went out with a weak hiccup. "Wait, what?"

Dumbledore answered gradually, as if weighing his words, "Every memory you possess of magic will be erased, of course. We would not ask you to suffer the knowledge of our society without allowing you to share in it. We are not cruel."

"You can do that?" I wondered lamely.

The potions professor nodded vigorously, his singed hair flailing about.

"Indeed," Albus agreed regretfully, turning to Snape, "And thank you for your dedicated service, Severus. I will personally see to your potions classes until a suitable replacement can be found."

The color drained out of Snape's already pale face. "What?"

"It's very unfortunate," Dumbledore admitted, "but the laws are very clear on access to wizarding institutions. It had been a written decree of the Hogwarts governors even before the Statute of Secrecy was instated—'No muggle shall be permitted to enter Hogwarts.'"

Snape sputtered again, "That's not—he isn't—He _attacked_ me—"

"Come now, Severus...you dragged a muggle into one of the finest magical schools in the world by his ankle, clearly against his wishes. The penalty set forth by the Hogwarts board of governors is a five-year ban from the grounds, whether student or professor.

"The Statute of Secrecy is even stricter," Dumbledore continued, "it makes no distinction between wizarding schools like Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic itself. Could you _imagine_ a muggle being dragged into the atrium at the Ministry? The minimum penalty for such a crime is six months in Azkaban Prison—surely you understand the need for such strictures."

Albus's tone was pleasant—as if discussing his plans for the weekend—but the purplish shade of Snape's face told me that Azkaban was an exceptionally _un_pleasant place.

The potions professor looked to be on the verge of collapse. "Dumbledore, I never—"

"Never what, Severus? Never dragged Harry Potter—a _muggle_—into the school by his ankle? By _magic_?"

"But you need me—I'm head of Slytherin House!"

"And we will be severely affected by the loss of such an exceptional educator."

Snape looked like he wanted to object, but Dumbledore raised his hand to interrupt.

"If it were only the three of us who knew about Mr. Potter's presence, I could've taken care of this matter more discreetly," Dumbledore sighed, delicately rubbing his temples with long, thin fingers, "but the entire school will know of this fiasco by the end of the night. If a professor can break the law with impunity, how can we discipline our students?"

There was an extraordinarily long, charged silence as Snape's face continued to contort dangerously—Albus's grandfatherly patience never wavered.

_So Snape's going to prison because I'm a muggle, and I'll lose my memories because I'm a muggle...and this school is really dangerous to me because I'm a muggle...and if I can't enroll here then it's St. Brutus's for me..._

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop..." I scratched the back of my head nervously as both professors turned to stare at me, "but if I understand your conversation correctly...as long as I'm a student here, everything works out, doesn't it? I don't mind all that 'mortal peril' stuff, really..."

Snape and Dumbledore looked at each other for a long moment, and I watched in fascination as Snape's color shot past puce—it was now a mottled sort of blue with splashes of red around the cheeks.

Albus smiled agreeably.

* * *

And that's how I ended up as the tallest student in line for the Sorting, a confiscated joke wand in my borrowed robes and an irrepressible grin stretched across my face.

I towered over the gaggle of first-years, several of whom were gaping at me in varying degrees of awe and terror. I wondered how fast gossip could spread in a school of magic, and tried not to enjoy too much the fact that I was finally bigger than _someone_.

I'd had years of practice at ignoring stares, so I took the opportunity to really look around and absorb the surroundings. The Houses, one of which I would soon be Sorted into, were divided along four colossal tables that stretched the length of the great hall, where every meal would be eaten.

No matter which House I was Sorted into, I'd have to keep my true nature a secret from them; the three of us who knew I was a muggle had been sworn to secrecy. If any students found out, or even if another professor found out, they might let out with the truth—and I'd wake up back at the Dursleys, blissfully unaware of magic and waiting to be shipped away to St. Brutus's.

I wouldn't allow that to happen.

Whatever they'd done to make the ceiling transparent was a stroke of brilliance, and I had to keep reminding myself that I shouldn't keep getting enthralled by this 'magic' stuff—with any luck, I was going to be surrounded by a lot of this 'magic' stuff for the next few years.

"Potter, Harry!" Professor McGonagall called out, motioning for me to sit at the three-legged stool at the front of the hall. The entire hall went deathly quiet as I strolled toward the chair, and I felt my apprehension grow with each step. Surely, this talking hat would know straight away that I was as magical as a sugared biscuit.

I glared up at the High Table where Dumbledore sat. _You'd better have a plan, old man, _I wanted to tell him. As if I'd spoken aloud, the headmaster winked conspiratorially.

Relief bloomed in my chest as the hat fell over my head. "So..." I heard a small voice that was distinctly _not_ mine in my ear. "Where shall we put you, Harry?"

I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured the redheaded girl I'd met. _Her name's Weasley, I think. Put me in her House, hat!_

The small voice hummed thoughtfully, "Weasley? Only one house that family goes to, so it'd better be GRYFFINDOR!"

I heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall, and grinned widely as the far table exploded in the loudest cheers yet.

Glancing back at the headmaster, I nodded my thanks and loped over to the far table. I took my seat amongst the students, shaking hands and greeting new faces and getting thumped about the back regularly.

I'd never felt such warm acceptance in my life, and I found my cheeks heating pleasantly as more and more Gryffindors came up to apologize for trying to blast me into goo. "I was only throwing hexes—nothing dangerous," tended to be the most frequent excuse. I forgave them immediately, so long as they promised to wait at least a week before doing it again.

I couldn't remember a time when people had been so happy to see me as my fellow Gryffindors—my new Housemates. _And that redheaded girl from the train...I'll be sure to get the rest of her name next time!_

Once we'd taken our seats and dug in, I noticed that Snape wasn't up at the High Table with the rest of the staff. I couldn't blame him, looking as barmy as he was, but I wondered how he would uphold our agreement. From the veins that I'd seen popping out on his greasy forehead in the headmaster's study, he wasn't taking my enrollment very well.

I made quick work of my boiled potatoes, roast chicken and sausages, inhaling the food with joy and starting in on dessert. I'd never had so many of my favorites in one place before, the thought of eating so well every day made me want to hug my new headmaster around the neck, no matter how old and stately he was.

Snape had called it a grave injustice and I secretly agreed—my presence at Hogwarts _was_ an injustice, all three of us knew it. But he couldn't tell anyone about it, and it _had_ to be choking him.

I stuffed more Yorkshire pudding into my mouth to hide my grin.

A bushy-haired brunette sitting across from me stuck her hand in my face, which I clumsily shook. "Hermione Granger, 4th year. I know all about you, of course—you're in _Modern Magical History _and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_."

"Am I?" I asked, a bit overwhelmed; the headmaster hadn't told me that anyone would know who I was. Would this affect the lie I'd have to start telling everyone?

"Of course—you're famous, you know. What year are you?"

"I think I'm a 4th year, too. I was homeschooled up until now, learning all sorts of things." Dumbledore had given me an alibi to explain my three-year absence. He'd also encouraged me not to downplay how powerful I seemed to be—the more powerful everyone thought I was, the more easily I could get away with my inevitable lack of participation in classes.

"So I'm the same age as a 4th year, but I'm _way_ ahead of the class schedule. It'll be interesting to see if this school can teach me anything." _Anything I can actually use, that is,_ my mind appended bitterly

"Did you really blow up Professor Snape and the potions classroom?" Hermione asked, her brown eyes inquisitive. Every conversation around us quieted as my new housemates stared at me.

I choked on my pudding, "Well, it was supposed to be training...I was just going to blow up his cauldron, but he's such a slimy git, I ended up putting a bit more into it." I laughed tightly, trying to ignore as my conscience derided me. _It was all an accident! You don't have any power! You're a liar!_

Several of my new housemates cringed away from me, while others looked thrilled. Hermione breathed hard through her nose, regarding me critically, "You blew up our potions professor and his entire classroom, just because you thought he was 'a slimy git'?"

I shrugged, unashamed, "Well he is, isn't he? Someone had to do it..."

"I think it's brilliant," declared the gangly redhead beside Hermione. I grinned at him, thankful for the support. "Ron Weasley. Wish I could've been there to see the look on his stupid face."

"He looked a bit like this," I widened my eyes and affected the most brainless, terrified face I could manage. "Then the explosion burned his head a bit, so he's got these huge hairy tufts that look like bat ears sprouting from his head now."

Ron howled with laughter, nearly falling off the bench in the process.

Hermione scowled at him sternly. "Ron! He's a professor!"

"Not bad, Potter. I'm glad you're in our year—I can't wait for Potions!" Ron nodded approvingly at me, still smiling widely.

His last name niggled at my mind.

"Weasley...I've heard that name somewhere. You wouldn't happen to have a sister, would you? About our age?" I asked, trying to appear disinterested.

The smile slid off of Ron's face, replaced with a stony glare.

Dumbledore stood at the High Table, thankfully before Ron could say or do anything unnecessary. "So!" he smiled around at all of us. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.

"As you may already have been informed, we have a new transfer student in our midst—Mr. Potter will be attending classes with our 4th year students." Whispers broke out around the great hall, but were quieted instantly by Dumbledore.

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has updated his list of banned items to four hundred and thirty-seven, I believe, and the full list can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office. As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

There was that "Quidditch" word again. From the looks of it, it was something important—Ron was gaping at Dumbledore and his face had gone ashen. He kept mouthing "No..." over and over, shaking his head as if bothered by a persistent gnat.

Dumbledore pressed on despite the grave silence, "This is due to an event that will start in October and continue throughout the rest of the school year, which will take up much of your teachers' time and energy. It gives me great pleasure to announce that this year at Hogwarts, we will have the honor of hosting an event that has not been held for over a century—the Triwizard Tournament."

The jubilant shouts that erupted from every corner of the hall got me wondering just what sort of absurd event this 'Triwizard Tournament' would be like, if even Hogwarts students—who didn't bat an eyelash at moving portraits, floating candles or ghosts—were getting this excited.

* * *

After the start-of-term banquet, I'd escaped the herding of the first years and wandered the halls for a while.

"Southeast corner of the school, on the 7th floor at the very end of the corridor, behind the portrait of the fat lady," is what an older Gryffindor had told me when I asked where I was to sleep. "But you're supposed to come with us, you're not allowed—"

I had tucked my hand into my wand pocket casually, and even though _I_ knew that there was only a joke wand in there, the student had gone white as a ghost and left in a hurry, muttering "Balderdash..."

I'd never liked lying to people, of course, but knowing that people thought I was powerful...it was an addicting sensation, after being a punching bag for so many years.

I didn't plan on making a habit of wandering aimlessly, I just needed a few minutes alone to wrap my mind around the fact that this incredible, ancient castle was my new school, and I probably wouldn't learn a single thing here.

What good was learning how to throw hexes if I couldn't actually throw them? I frowned down at the joke wand in my hand, wishing it were a real one. If it were a real wand, maybe if I tried hard enough I could learn to do more than turn it into a rubber chicken...

"Harry Potter?" a voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

Turning around, I noticed that a group of boys had been following me. They each had green ties—Slytherin house, I recalled. A thin, pale boy was flanked on both sides by children who looked like they belonged in the DRP. One was tall and broad, and the other was short and thick. They both looked extremely mean and stupid, and I felt oddly grateful for the familiar sight. So much in this place was entirely new and exciting—it was nice to see something I was used to.

I chastised myself for being so unaware of my surroundings, but nodded, "Yeah, who're you?"

"I'm Draco Malfoy, these two are Crabbe and Goyle." The two thickset boys nodded, strange smiles on their faces as they stepped uncomfortably close to me. "We wanted to take this opportunity to say 'welcome to Hogwarts', and throw you a little party."

"A party?" I repeated, wondering whether to be intrigued or confused.

Draco Malfoy nodded, a mirthless smile on his pale face, "To set the tempo of things to come, and to help you learn your place in the order of things. First rule of Hogwarts—you're not supposed to do magic in the halls."

As he was saying this, the taller boy reached out and snatched the joke wand from my dangling arm. All three boys laughed as if they'd just done something brilliant.

"So you're going to beat me up, then?" My hands were already flexing inside my sleeves. I'd been pretty tense over the last few hours—my memories and my chance at a better life had nearly been taken away from me. This was a perfect opportunity to relieve some stress and teach some bullies a good lesson. I'd had a lot of experience with their type over the past few years—it'd be a shame not to put it to use.

"We took your wand—you can't hurt us without a wand!" the shorter, wider one—Crabbe...or was that one Goyle—jeered gleefully.

_How thoughtful, to inform me that I'm powerless without a wand. I'll be sure to thank you properly for such relevant information. _He obviously believed that little gem, which meant that he believed they were powerless without their wands, as well. Didn't wizards bother learning how to defend themselves without magic?

_An interesting theory; let's test it._

I tucked my hands inside my trouser pockets laconically. Three of them? Well, that was enough to test my theory.

"Okay, gents—let's get rough." I clenched the worn grips of Tim's handlebars tightly.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was preparing to turn in for the night when a knock came at his door. Squinting at the name written in large, gold lettering across the doors, he sighed and straightened in his chair.

"Come in, Severus. You have something you wish to ask me?"

Snape stalked into the room, his hair regrown and slicked back once again. There was a curious anger in his features. "James Potter and Lily were both magical, Dumbledore. I held my tongue at your insistence, but I'll not allow myself to be made a fool. Why did you call him a muggle? With wizarding parents, he'd be a squib—and there is no law against allowing squibs on the grounds! You would've thrown me into Azkaban for that? I have trusted you a great deal, but you must trust me with this!" He surged back and forth in front of the headmaster's desk like a threatened viper.

Albus nodded and explained, "Indeed, a child born to magical parents is known as a squib—but I think you'll agree that Harry Potter is a very unusual boy. His blood does not know magic, despite his wizarding parents. I felt it the moment I saw him, and I became certain the moment he touched my wand—which means he is not a squib."

Severus opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore wasn't finished. "And yet he passed through the barrier at King's Cross, which a muggle would not be able to do. He also sees the real Hogwarts, instead of the crumbling ruins that a muggle would."

"What are you trying to say? He's not a squib, but he isn't a muggle?"

"Something to that effect, yes. I have only assumptions at this point, but it could be of grave importance to the wizarding world."

"Grave enough to risk _my_ career and _my_ sanity!"

"I know it must seem cruel of me, Severus, but I assure you: Harry Potter _is_ a muggle. His blood is completely devoid of magic. I was not wrong to call him such, and further tests will only serve to draw unwanted attention."

"But you allow him to stay!"

"I would prefer _both_ of you to remain at Hogwarts, yes," Dumbledore reminded him gently.

Severus seethed, "Headmaster, you have to know that Potter neglected to mention something important. I searched his mind, and his last school expelled him! He fought nearly every day in this 'Stonewall High'! With his fists, with chairs and bricks! It's barbaric!"

"Oh my...we may have just let in a monster..." Albus mused, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the dim light of the wall sconces. "How appropriate, considering the monsters we will be home to this year..."

"I think you're being far to cavalier about this. Even if he stays, he's still a muggle! You had to confund the Sorting hat to get him Sorted, for Merlin's sake! He never should've been allowed on the train!"

Dumbledore smiled proudly at the hook-nosed man, "He did manage to make it to Hogwarts, didn't he? I gave him no instructions at all, just a train ticket, and he made it here unscathed and on time. And honestly, Severus, I think that Harry Potter is precisely what this school needs right now."

"_You sent him that ticket?_" Snape's jaw fell slack in shock.

"But don't forget, Severus, it was _you_ that pulled him into the school, and the students all know it—you'll be fired by the board of Governors and shipped off to Azkaban if he is found out, and there's nothing I can do to save you if that happens," Dumbledore's eyes were pensive behind his spectacles. "You must keep his secret now—for both of your sakes."

"Then we are both doomed, Dumbledore—he'll never pass for a wizard! No matter how hard he tries, he cannot possibly change his blood." Snape let out a defeated sigh and collapsed into a chair.

Dumbledore stared piercingly across his desk at Snape, "It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be. Aberforth taught me that."

* * *

_Glad I cleared that up, then—these students are pushovers,_ I chuckled darkly as I stepped away from the unconscious Slytherins.

I whistled a cheerful tune as I climbed the staircase toward the Gryffindor common room, wondering how anyone managed to get anywhere in a castle where the staircases led somewhere different every hour. It was amusing now, but I imagined it would get very irritating when I started arriving late to class because of it.

I finally reached the portrait of the fat lady, who was wearing a very pink silk dress, and regarded her inquiringly. She stared back expectantly, so I shrugged and knocked twice on the portrait.

"Excuse me!" the fat lady huffed, looking affronted. "Keep your grubby hands off of my portrait, young man!"

"Oh, sorry. I thought I was supposed to knock," I said lamely, wondering why I was attempting to justify myself to a painting. "Listen, I'm knackered. Could you let me by?"

"Password?" she asked distrustfully.

"Erm...please, fat lady? I wasn't given a password—I didn't know I needed one." If I had to spend the night out here in the hallway, I resolved to be _very_ unpleasant to that older student when I found him again.

"Don't call me that!" the lady bristled. "I drank too much during the holiday, perhaps, but that's no reason to be so rude about it! I have a name—Vivian!"

My brow knit in frustration. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see that she was a fair bit larger than 'plump,' I didn't see why she was so touchy about it. Where else in the world did a man have to argue with his door to get it to open? "Look—Vivian—I'm really sorry for the miscommunication earlier, that's just what another student called you and I didn't think anything of it. I'm sorry, it won't happen again, now will you please open up?"

_There, that was diplomatic,_ I congratulated myself on defusing the situation.

"Password?" Vivian sniffed sourly.

_For the love of—_ "Look, the only thing he told me was that the entrance was behind you, and he stomped off muttering 'balderdash'! Now open up, or I'll start kicking!"

With one last scowl, the portrait swung forward to reveal a happily-chattering crowd of robe-wearing students. I gaped at the sheer number of people stuffed in amongst the squashy armchairs.

It seemed like the entire House, minus the first-years, was busy catching up with their fellow Gryffindors. Someone spotted me gawking at the door and let out a cheer, which was echoed by the entire common room as I was pulled forcibly through the entrance hole and roundly applauded.

Between toasting Snape's recent thrashing and numerous boasts about the best House in Hogwarts, someone handed me a weird bottled drink that tasted like butterscotch. I nodded my thanks and sipped at it, grateful for an excuse not to lie about how I'd beaten the Potions professor again.

Despite the circumstances, I couldn't help but laugh and cheer as the toasts became progressively more ridiculous. Somebody raised his drink and shouted, "To that great hairy fellow who keeps bringing all those dangerous beasts for Care of Magical Creatures! _Barking_ mad!"

"Hagrid!" a tall boy admonished.

"Him too!" the boy agreed.

"To Troy, Mullet and Moran!" said another, "To Victor Krum!"

I didn't have the foggiest idea who those people were supposed to be, but I cheered just as loud as anyone, "Hear, hear!"

"To Harry Potter!" a distinctly female voice called from across the room.

I ducked my head, trying to contain my smile as the common room erupted in catcalls and whistles. I kept waiting for someone to point out that I was only the speckiest boy in the DRP, but nobody here knew a thing about it. They were honestly thrilled to count me among their number, and I promised myself that I'd do everything in my power to deserve such acceptance. I'd be the best damn Gryffindor this school had ever seen!

I just had to figure out how to work around that whole "muggle" business...

"To Weasley and Granger, our resident heroes!" someone shouted out, "Won us the House Cup last year, first time in a decade!"

"Yeah!" affirmed another, "100 points a piece, and a joint Special Award for Services to the School for catching that slimy bastard Pettigrew! Who knew you had it in you?"

Hermione smiled, flustered but pleased, and Ron just scratched his head and drank—neither looked at the other.

So I couldn't use a wand and I'd routinely have to lie to the entire school. So the most magical thing I could manage was turning my joke wand into a rubber chicken.

_So what?_ I thought defiantly, snatching up another 'butterbeer' and sucking it down amidst a new chorus of cheers—they were toasting my exploding of the Potions classroom again.

Even though I didn't belong here...even though I would always be a heartbeat away from obliviation and expulsion...I got the feeling that Hogwarts was going to be home to the best years of my life.


End file.
